A Knife in the Dark
by RobertJordanTheRed
Summary: When visited by a mysterious figure whilst interred in the Castle Dour prison, the gentlemanly highwayman, Raccan, finds himself at the heart of an assassination plot that runs deep through the roots of Tamriel's criminal underworld, and whose ramifications could destabilise the continent even further and plunge it into a second Great War. Set during the events of 4E:201


Ch. 1 - With friends like these

The procession crawled out of Castle Dour's gaol and across the twilight courtyard. On all sides the townspeople had congregated themselves beneath the shadows of the gothic parapets, every one of them eager to catch a glimpse of the coffin that held the formerly infamous highwayman, Raccan. One of the coffin bearers aroused odd murmurs from some of the townsfolk- a stylishly dressed and well-groomed Khajiit who, along with a portly priest and two of the town guard, now carried the body across the square and towards the Hall of the Dead. There, it was to be prepared and then carted off and buried in the execution cemetery outside the city walls where it would lie with the rest of Solitude's executed criminals. However, Raccan had shuffled off the face of Nirn without the aid of the headsman's axe. Fate had a dictated for him a far more drawn out and gruesome end; blood rot had set in early on during his confinement. The coffin cast a long, dark shadow on the onlookers as it neared the hall's torch-lit entrance, where it slipped inside out of view along with its bearers.

And that was that. The masked devil that had been terrorising the hold for the past season, relieving foreign emissaries and local nobility alike of their more costly articles, would terrorise no more. Some (namely the poor who the gentlemanly thief notoriously refused ever to target) inwardly lamented the death of Raccan, whose romantics escapades had inspired many a rousing song on cold nights at inns throughout the Hold, much to the contempt of the authorities. For others, his death was a welcome step towards a more stable province that was ever reeling from the pressures of civil war and dragon fire, and mutters of "good riddance to bandit scum" and "justice well served" flickered through the crowd as they dissipated back to their fire-lit houses, their macabre fancies having been placated for the time being.

The two guardsmen who had helped to carry the body now exited the Hall of the Dead and made their way towards the castle, and as the rap of their sabatons on the cobbles faded to nothing, the town square, the courtyard and the castle exterior fell deathly silent.

Styrr and Kharjo watched as the doors closed after the guards. Satisfied that they were now alone, the two set about undertaking their nocturnal task. Styrr grabbed two pry bars from the counter to his left and passed one to his Khajiit accomplice.

"Won't be long now, my undead friend", he joked as he rapped on the top of the coffin now lying on the large stone table in the centre of the room, before beginning to prise open the vessel. Kharjo, from the other side of the table, followed suit, and with some straining from both parties the cover eventually gave way with a piercing crack. A rackety cough echoed from within and the khajiit and priest looked on as two inky hands appeared, grasping the side of the cover, and sliding it off from the top of the coffin. A dark figure clad in rags lethargically rose to a sitting position and gave a few more hoarse coughs. With the help of the light from the candle chandelier overhead, Styrr and Kharjo discerned a square-faced Redguard. Not blessed with fair features, Raccan had a set of two wonky black eyes, a bulging forehead and thin, dark hair that fell down to his shoulders. The most striking of his features, however, was his large and well-formed roguish smile that he now directed towards his two friends.

"By the nine divines, never again," He said as he leapt out of the deathly container and stretched his limbs, happy to be free of its cramped confines.

"How was it in there?" asked Styrr, glad to see his friend back among the living.

"Cramped, and hard to breathe despite the air holes which all the same were much appreciated," rejoined Raccan.

"This one is impressed that your little trick actually worked," said Kharjo.

"One mention of blood rot and the guards will be sure to keep well away," replied Raccan through a grin. He stopped to once again admire the Khajiit's artistry which adorned his figure from head to toe. Sprawling across his torso and arms was what looked like an of array plague-like symptoms – boils, varicose veins and peeling skin – but a closer examination revealed these afflictions to merely be the works of an artist bent on deception. For Raccan had not died in his cell as the inhabitants of Solitude currently believed.

Unbeknownst to them, it was all a fiction carefully crafted by the criminal as a means of escape: Six nights ago, Raccan had complained to the guards of feeling deathly ill, convincingly enough for them to summon the priest to examine his condition. In on the trickery, Styrr declared the highwayman to be dying of blood rot, after which the guards kept their distance. As a final request before the illness took him, Raccan called for his friend, Kharjo the khajiit, that he may pay his last respects. With the guards still adamant on keeping their distance, the artist went unchecked as he painted all manner of atrocities onto Raccan's body. The two accessories then made their final visit, during which Styrr administered the prisoner with a powerful yet ephemeral sleeping draught. From here, it was easy to convince the guards that Raccan had died and have his body moved to the Hall of the Dead.

"I must say this is surely one of your greatest artistic achievements to date," joked Raccan, although he knew he was being disingenuous, for just above his head there was a room bursting with canvasses depicting the most wonderful and awe-inspiring elements of Tamriel's heterogeneous landscape. From the harsh, grey landscapes of Vvardenfell's Ashlands and the lush amber dunes of the Alik'r Desert, to the glorious sunsets of Cyrodiil's Gold Coast and the impossible glass cities of the Summerset Isles, it seemed no part of Tamriel had gone undocumented by Kharjo and his paintbrush. He was presently enjoying the patronage of the headmaster of the Bards College in Solitude, Viarmo, who – upon hearing that the talented and renowned artist was in Skyrim - had offered him funding in return for a series of paintings on the theme of the city of Solitude itself. Kharjo had easily accepted the offer, for - despite his undisputed fame and talent - finding work as an artist in these troubles times was not easy. The usual class of fine art enthusiasts – the nobility and the gentry – were more interested in rebuilding the war-torn continent than they were in financing aspiring virtuosos. But perhaps more importantly, Kharjo would require the patronage of an esteemed member of society such as Viarmo if he ever hoped of being allowed entry into the cities of the distrusting Nords, for whom the word 'Khajiit' was synonymous with 'thief' and 'scoundrel'. Viarmo had found lodgings for Kharjo in the quarters housing the city priest across the street from the college.

The priest of Arkay, now scurrying upstairs into the main living area, had proven to be an interesting cohabiter. Styrr was, after all, not strictly orthodox in his practices as a priest of Arkay. He certainly believed in the gods and paid reverence to them, maintaining that their existence was demonstrably indisputable, but he did not subscribe to the ascetic lifestyle which so many in the monastic orders deem essential to a better understanding of the workings of the Aedra. To put it plainly, Styrr indulged. He was a lover of rich horker stews and Evette San's spiced wine from the marketplace, and the occasional sweetroll also found its way onto his palette from time to time. But the priest was also known to indulge in vices of more ill repute, and dealers of Skooma were not unacquainted with his lodgings above the Hall of the Dead.

When word of such criminal activity surrounding the priest reached Kharjo's ears, any reservations he had about making his own villainous ventures known to Styrr were quickly lost. And this was how Styrr came to be acquainted with Raccan. For many months now, Kharjo had served as the highwayman's principal fence. Raccan had often funnelled illegal contraband out of the hold through the Khajiit caravans who came to trade outside the city walls. Kharjo was present for one such exchange – travelling with the caravans around Skyrim whenever he could, grateful for the opportunity to converse with fellow Khajiit and for the added security which large travel parties provide – and, on sussing out the nature of Raccan's work, had offered to continue to provide such covert services from inside the walls of Solitude after his arrival. The fine eye for detail obtained through Kharjo's craft as a painter transposed well over to his ability to discern the nature, origin and value of certain items. On demonstrating this skill to Raccan by convincingly identifying a Dwemer bracelet in the Redguard's possession as a cheap Corundum knock-off, the Khajiit gained Raccan as a client. Styrr was happy to accommodate these transactions under his roof, provided he saw a cut so that he may continue to fund his vices.

"Kharjo is merely happy he could be of service to such a fine and prrofitable friend," the Khajiit purred. Styrr appeared on the staircase and told Raccan to come upstairs for food and drink. The mention of sustenance cut through the remnants of Raccan's excitement, and he was reminded of how dreadfully malnourished he was. His legs gave way and he would have fallen to the stone floor had Kharjo not caught him under the arms. Styrr hobbled down the stairs to lend a hand.

"Kharjo, would you fetch some water from the well so Raccan can clean himself?" The Khajiit obliged and left, leaving Styrr alone to help the exhausted Raccan up to the more hospitably furnished upstairs. The blaze from the cooking stove instantly blinded Raccan, and Styrr set him down at the table as he adjusted to light far stronger than he had seen in days.

"Eat," said Styrr, passing a heel of bread and a bottle of mead. The sight of palatable food revived Raccan and he greedily tore into the heel. The priest gave him time to recover before probing-

"I suppose these past few days down in that cell have offered a lot of time for reflection."

"Mhm," Raccan grunted back through a mouth full of mead-soaked bread. "I'm getting far away from Solitude. Doing something different. I don't quite know what yet, but I know that the Hammerfell Highwayman is dead."

"Is this because of how the last hold-up went?"

"What do you mean?"

"I heard you blundered it."

Raccan nearly spat out the contents of his mouth. This was too much to stomach. Was that the story the guards had been spreading?

"I blun-? Me?" he spluttered, " _I_ didn't blunder up anything. It was that fool Breton boy, Jared, let a crossbow bolt flying, almost taking the poor lady in the carriage's eye out. And then he begins apologising incessantly and reassuring her it was a complete accident. Meanwhile the bodyguard has gotten out of whatever lousy knot Jared tied and she's cut the stupid boy's wind pipe. Now I've got a brutish Orc legionnaire's sword pointed at my throat and my crossbow pointed to the ground. And yes, perhaps I should have been a bit quicker on the draw, but the truth is that it was that boy's incompetence that landed me in the hands of the town guard. Now I liked him because I thought he was a cut above the rest of the thuggish outlaws in the hold, most of whom have mammoths cheese for brains. The conversation was good. You could tell he was well read, you know?" He sighed, "what a mistake that was. But that's that. Anyway, like I said I'm quitting the life."

Now it was Styrr's turn to be incredulous.

"What else would you do, Raccan? Couldn't you stage hold-ups on your own? Cut off the dead weight?"

Raccan shook his head.

"There's far fewer tricks you can pull when there's just one of you. Greatly reduces your scope of targets. A carriage with more than one guard? Not worth the risk. Two carriages with a guard each? Only a s'wit would try it. No. It's much safer and more profitable to go at it with an accomplice and split the loot fifty fifty. Anyway, forget it. Like I said I'm doing something different from now on. I used to live a law-abiding live. I can do it again"

Styrr nodded slowly along to this logic, as the door slammed shut downstairs and Kharjo called up to say he had fetched the water. With his stomach full and warmed by the mead, Raccan now went downstairs to clean the stench and grime and cracking paint off himself.

"Thank you, Kharjo," he said before plunging his face into the bucket of cold, refreshing water. The khajiit purred appreciatively in response.

"This one does not mean to be forward, but Kharjo was offered a handsome reward for his part in Raccan's masterful escape," the Khajiit looked over to Styrr who had followed Raccan down, "as was the priest." Styrr said nothing but looked with anticipation at the Redguard. Raccan stopped washing and looked up, pausing for a moment. He slowly turned and crouched beneath the table, removing a loose cobble to reveal a hidden cache in the form of a small brown bag. He brought it up and placed it on the table and took out two round, purple amethysts that sparkled as they caught the light from the candles above.

"Here," Raccan placed each jewel into the respective palm of the two people he owed his life to.

Kharjo purred, "This will do nicely."

"Business well done," added Styrr with a terse smile, "But in the future, please refrain from dismantling my house whenever you need somewhere to store your contraband."

"Don't worry, I don't plan on hanging around here much longer. Did you get my things?" asked Raccan. Styrr nodded and told him they were upstairs along with the bedroll which Raccan was to sleep in. As Kharjo claimed to have been acquainted with Raccan, and there were no other known relatives or associates of the highwayman upon his apparent death, the Solitude guard left everything found on Raccan during his arrest to Kharjo, denuded of anything suspected of legally belonging to someone else.

"It's late," Styrr announced, "and Kharjo and I still need to pad this coffin out before they come for it tomorrow – we don't want them noticing the absence of a body in there. You best get some rest, Raccan."

"Yes, well, once again, you both have my thanks. I owe you my life, and I won't forget that." Raccan withdrew to the sleeping quarters Styrr had arranged for him on the landing outside the two bedrooms. Unbeknownst to Styrr or Kharjo, the Redguard had subtly withdrawn a third item from his cache beneath the cobbled floor which, climbing the stairs to the landing, he now handled inside the pocket of his ragged prisoner trousers. He collapsed onto the bedroll and buried his face in the white fur trim, but fought off the tiredness that wished to instantly grip him, in order to roll onto his back and inspect the curious item in his pocket. He took out a pale blue crystal about the size of a soul gem, rectangular in dimension but refined to a tip at one end. Despite the complete absence of light on the landing, Raccan could have sworn the stone was glimmering, as though there was some source of light refracting outwards from within the stone itself. But Raccan was not enraptured with the stone purely because of a visual curiosity: he had taken it from someone, and they now appeared to be going to great lengths to have it returned.

/

Six nights ago, the night he set in motion his plan for escape, Raccan was visited in his cell by the largest orc he had ever seen, who introduced himself as Cassock. The hulking brute sat down cross-legged outside the highwayman's cell. Raccan noticed that the two guards stationed at the gaol entrance appeared to show no concern at all for the casual conversation that was now apparently ensuing. In the darkness on the other side of the thick iron bars, Raccan discerned a face with large tusks and a thick black beard that extended down to the orc's chest. His visitor was clothed in a black gown and a hood that covered the majority of his face, but despite this unsettling appearance, the orc spoke with a deep yet softly calming voice.

"You've got yourself into quite a spot of trouble, highwayman."

"I've gotte out of far worse before," replied Raccan cockily. "Who are you?"

The orc inhaled loudly through his wide, monstrous nostrils before replying.

"I represent," he paused, "a very ancient, and powerful organisation, whose presence is felt and feared throughout Tamriel's underworld."

"Impressive," replied Raccan sardonically.

The orc paid no heed to the Redguard's insolence. "You have something of ours. You took it, from a company of Thalmor envoys. It was supposed to reach one of my colleagues stationed here in Haafingar – payment for… a past service fulfilled – and when it didn't, we traced it to you."

Raccan was almost certain he knew which item the orc was referring to. He rarely kept hold of anything he took during hold-ups, usually passing it onto Kharjo as soon as possible. But he hadn't given Kharjo the crystal. Something had compelled him to refrain from sharing its existence with anyone else, an intoxicating feeling of vague mystery that he discerned within it when it gazed at him, as though someone were calling to him from very far off.

"The crystal, you mean," he answered. Raccan thought he detected the slightest of smiles creeping into the face of the sibylline orc.

"Yes, the crystal."

"What do you want for it?" Raccan inquired.

"You. We want you to bring the crystal to us."

"What's in it for me?"

The orc dipped his head closer to the bars, so close that Raccan could feel his odourless breath seeping through the air, and let his eyes wander below the bottom of the hood, meeting Raccan's gaze for the first time. The ice-blue irises pierced through Raccan's mind and made his heart quicken.

"If I wanted to, I could tear through these bars as though they were made of tundra cotton and drag you out here and torture the stone's location out of you. And those guards wouldn't bat an eyelid. We are being generous with what we ask from you."

Raccan did not reply. He was at an utter loss for words. Not for fear, but out of a complete incapacity to comprehend the situation.

"You will find us in the Grey Quarter of Windhelm. Go to the New Gnisis Cornerclub and ask for the latest import from Blacklight. My associates at the other end will handle the rest." Cassock looked up and around at the prison's confines. "I have no doubt that these walls will fail to keep you." He looked back at Raccan, "We look forward to seeing you soon, highwayman."

/

Raccan grew cold remembering the encounter, but he intended to honour the orc's request, for he was curious to discover more about the clearly wide-reaching organisation, as well as the curious crystal which they were so keen to get hold of. The Hammerfell highwayman soon fell into a slumber to the backdrop of his two friends hurriedly working downstairs, and as he slept, he dreamt frightful dreams of unwanted visits in the night and heard those - long dead - sing to him of deep, forgotten mysteries.


End file.
